


Across the sunlight darkness

by e_p_hart



Category: English and Scottish Popular Ballads - Francis James Child, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Gen, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters, Steampunk, The twa sisters - Freeform, murder ballads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hmm,” he said. “So, have any of your little friends creeping around my gardens seen anything exciting?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“And you sound so disappointed.”</p><p>“Well, sir, to be honest, I am. You’re an alchemist! Where are the experiments at midnight in the rain and the thunder and lightning? Where is your faithful servant, digging up a body in the graveyard? Where are the strange bangs and smokes coming from the attic?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across the sunlight darkness

The truth is the truth.

This is the truth: _There were once two sisters who loved each other very much_.

The truth is always true. But it isn’t the whole story.

*

_You look up through the layers of water and she’s standing there, looking at you, and you lock eyes with her, and she’s so beautiful and you love her, you would do anything for her. You reach a hand up but the water is bearing you away, deeper under the ice, and the water is so cold against your eyes that you have to shut them against the pain—_

_You shut your eyes._

*

Two sisters lived with their father, a sad man whose wife had been killed ten years prior in a steam carriage accident. To add insult to injury, he was also their small town’s mechanic. He was an excellent mechanic, despite the fact that he now detested his job. The others in the town all treated him sensitively. But the family was quite able to provide for themselves.

The eldest sister was called Eva, which was short for Evangeline; and she was every inch as elegant as her name. She was tall and beautiful, with creamy skin and bright gold hair. She was an accomplished musician, with a voice like spun silver and a magical touch at the piano. If she were a little aloof, it was only because of grief, surely, as she had been twelve when her mother died, and had been forced to raise her younger sister, Danielle.

Danielle was Eva’s opposite in everything. Her hair and eyes were both dark, and she was several inches shorter than her sister. Music was not one of Danielle’s talents: she preferred to bake and help her father in his workshop, although these talents were not shared with the rest of the town. Where Eva was aloof and rather shy, Danielle had a quick smile and was prone to laughter, an elfin sparkle forever twinkling in her eyes.

Despite their differences, however, they loved each other very much: Eva doted upon Danielle, who in turn worshiped Eva.

 

*

_You don’t so much as awaken as are suddenly aware._

_You’re_ aware _._

_“Good.”_

_You lie on something hard and flat, and you can’t see anything except for a slight warmth, as though from a fire, that small orange haze against a white surface. You can hear the soft tapping of a typing machine, the hum of an electrum heater, the swift patter of snow against a window._

_“Would you like to sit up?”_

_Can you speak? You don’t know. Everything is numb, confused._

_“Let me help you.”_

_Your body sits up, but without aid you would fall back again. You don’t want to do anything. You shut your eyes again._

*

Eva was in love with the town postman, who drove an airship to London and back three times a week, to collect the post. Danielle didn’t love anyone except her sister.

 

One day, the entire town was in uproar over the news: an alchemist was moving there!                   

“He is sure to be very rich and handsome,” Danielle sighed.

 “He probably won’t,” Eva said unromantically. “He’ll probably be poor as a church mouse and twice as decrepit.”

They were to find out later that month, when the mysterious alchemist was to throw a masque for selected members of that society—and the Lewis family was invited.

 

*

_You are aware again._

_“You can speak now.”_

_“I do not want to.” Your voice sounds dead to your equally dead ears._

_“I did not save you from the river to have you throw your second life away.”_

_Suddenly—_

_No. No. It can’t be true._

_You don’t feel any pain from the memories, but you feel— the ice of the river, of her expression as you begged her to save you—_

_“No,” you say. “No.”_

_“Do you know who pushed you?”_

_“Yes— but no. I won’t say it.”_

_A sigh. “Very well. But you cannot remain forever like this.”_

_You feel your body, leaden and cold, and you turn your head and close your eyes._

 

*

The party was everything anyone could have dreamed: fireworks, beautiful machines, the finest music and food, flowers flown up directly from Africa—

But where was the host? No one could remember meeting anyone new, or seeing an unfamiliar face.

Where had he gone to?

“It’s a mystery,” Danielle told her sister as they returned home, extremely late. “I love a good mystery.”

“Take care not to stick your nose into private affairs,” Eva advised.

Of course Danielle did not listen! Eva was spending more and more time now with her postman, leaving Danielle at home, all alone and bored. Her age-mates had all gone to Spain for the winter, but she must stay home and help her father. She took to taking long walks, despite the cooling weather, and climbed the wall surrounding the alchemists’ gardens many times.

 

One chilly autumn afternoon, she met the alchemist.

She looked down from her perch on a branch in the garden to see a heavily scarfed figure coming towards her.

“What are you doing in here, little girl?” the figure asked angrily.

Danielle, sore at being called little when she was already twenty, slipped out of the tree and prepared to do battle.

“You might have broken your neck, and then where would I be?”

 “Don’t call me a little girl, sir,” Danielle snapped. “And I might ask you the same question: what are you doing in here?”

The figure snorted. “I own these gardens, cheeky.”

Danielle gasped. “You’re— you’re— you’re the alchemist?”

 “Who else would I be?”

“Well— everyone in the town always comes here, to try to spy on you. Not to steal anything,” she added hastily, “but we’re just so interested. And since we didn’t meet you at your party— Where were you, by the by?”

“I was called away suddenly,” said the alchemist, crossing his arms. “This town seems very concerned about business not their own.”

“Oh, it’s just that we have never had anyone as interesting as you move here,” Danielle said. “You can’t expect us not to be interested.”

“Hmm,” he said. “So, have any of your little friends creeping around my gardens seen anything exciting?”

“No.”

“And you sound so disappointed.”

“Well, sir, to be honest, I am. You’re an alchemist! Where are the experiments at midnight in the rain and the thunder and lighting? Where is your faithful servant, digging up a body in the graveyard? Where are the strange bangs and smokes coming from the attic?”

“It seems to me that your imagination is much too overactive.”

“Oh, not just mine, sir! It’s in the papers too: the London Journal, and the Daily Occult.”

“You read those rags?”

Danielle took a deep breath. This was not turning out as she’d hoped. “May we start again, sir?” She wiped her dirty hands on her skirts before holding one out. “My name is Danielle Lewis.”

He took her hand and kissed it. “And I am Ashton Waite.”

“So, sir, if you don’t mind me asking: what do you do, then, if you don’t—” She waved her hands. “You know, perform experiments in rain, on dead bodies, or seances by the light of the full moon—”

He _laughed_ at her. “Would you like to see?”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not inviting me inside so you can use me for one of your experiments, are you?”

“No, no,” Mr. Waite said. “I just hope that if I show you around, you’ll stop climbing my trees.” He offered Danielle his arm. “If you would be so kind?”

She took his arm; it was only polite. The same elderly butler she had seen at the party greeted them at the back door, taking their winter paraphernalia, and asking in a quavery voice if the master and his guest would like some tea, or perhaps another sort of hot drink.

“No, thank you, Underwood; she won’t be staying long. Keep her things close at hand.”

“Indeed, sire,” the butler said, disappearing into a slush room.

“Well, come on,” Mr. White said, heading towards an elevator. “My workshop is, of course, in the attic.”

“Oh, of course,” Danielle said, following. “Where did you live before you moved to our small town, sir?”

“London,” he said. “And before that, I did a stint in the Airship Corps in ‘46. After I’d graduated from Cambridge, of course.”

“Mmm,” she agreed, mind whirling.

The elevator let them out into the attic, which was not split into separate rooms, but stretched on interminably into the darkness: the windows were all barred and shuttered, letting no light in. There were tables, piled high with things of every sort: machine parts, nuts, bolts, broken and running machines, vials and vats of chemicals, cauldrons giving off odd-coloured smokes over tiny flames, stacks and stacks of papers and books, tools of every kind, crystals, bolts of cloth, jars of spices, jars of plants, jars of—

He stopped her before she could pick up the jar of eyeballs, glaring at her. “I did not say you could touch,” he said.

“I wasn’t— well, I was, but—” Danielle shook her head. “I apologize.”

“Indeed,” he said, hiding the jar in a drawer. “Well, you’ve seen my workshop. Is your dreadful imagination satisfied?”

“No!” Danielle said. “I want to see what you do.”

“What if I told you that was a secret?”

“I would believe you, but—”

“An alchemist never reveals his projects. Or his secrets. To me, they are the same thing. No,” he went on, steering her back to the elevator with a hand on her shoulder, “I am afraid you shall have to be satisfied with what you have gotten.”

Craning her head to get one last glimpse, Danielle allowed herself to be led back onto the elevator. “But now everyone will try twice hard to spy on you!”

“And I will try twice as hard to keep my secrets secret. Had I known that moving to such a small town would bring this upon me, I would never have moved from London.”

“Why did you move here, Mr. Waite?”

They were on the ground floor once again. The butler gestured to them from a doorway. “I took the liberty of setting up tea in the Blue Room, sire.”

Mr. Waite rolled his eyes. “Of course you did, Underwood. Very well; I will properly entertain my guest. Would you care for some tea, Miss Lewis?”

“Very much, thank you,” she said, not relishing having to go out once more into the cold.

They sat down in a room decorated entirely in blues, from the carpet to the wall hangings to the drapes— to the flames in the grate. When pressed, Mr. Waite explained shortly, “Gas, instead of wood, with copper added. My house staff have an overactive sense of the dramatic; they saw the blue and planned this.” There were also regular electrum lamps, with regular bulbs, which made more friendly shadows on the walls. A tea service sat on a table, and Mr. Waite went to it. “How do you take your tea, Miss Lewis?”

“One sugar,” she said, inspecting the view from a window. She accepted the cup with a nod. “So, why did you move here?”

“Another private question, Miss Lewis?”

“Do you know of any way better to pass the time?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I could be upstairs. Working,” he added pointedly.   

“But your butler laid the tea so nicely, and I am here now. You are feeding my curiosity, and I am simply ravenous.” She sipped her tea.

“Is that so? Well, then, Miss Lewis, do enlighten me. Tell me of myself.”

“We don’t know much,” she said, perching on a divan before the fire. “You’re an alchemist, but what kind, no one knows. You came from London, where you served our Queen, and, as such, are dreadfully rich. Don’t snort, it’s so unbecoming.”

“You young and your bluntness. Yes, you little gypsy, I am, as you say, dreadfully rich. Well, go on.”

“You’re not all old,” Danielle said stubbornly; “you can’t be.”

“I’m not old?”

“You would have been between 18 and 23 when you graduated from Cambridge, and probably 18, because the Airship Corps won’t accept anyone older than that. So you’re only just 30 now. Sir.”

 “And 30 isn’t old to you?”

“Not really,” she said. “I’m only 20 myself, but ten years can go by very quickly, don’t you think?”

From his standpoint by the mantle, he gave a sudden, gusty laugh. “Indeed they can, Miss Lewis. Is that all you know about me?”

Danielle shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“You suppose so. Good. That is all anyone is supposed to know about me. I quite enjoy my privacy.”

“Why did you have a masque, if you didn’t want to meet anyone?”

He turned to her, annoyed. “I had hoped to lay any rumours and deep interest in me to rest. I see my plan has failed.”

“It’s just that we don’t get many new people here,” Danielle explained. “And an alchemist!” She finished the rest of her tea.

“I would appreciate it if you would keep your little friends away from my garden. I am a busy man, and I am occupied with many delicate experiments.”

“Even though your butler seems to think you spend too much time working?”

“Oh, Underwood.” Mr. Waite snorted. “He’s been with me since I was a child, and, as such, seems to think he can boss me around. I humor him because it does no harm; but in this, I will make myself plain: I am an extremely busy man, and I do not wish to be bothered. Is that clear, Miss Lewis?”

“Oh, quite clear, Mr. Waite. Sir. However, if I may offer you some advice?” She stood, placing her teacup back on the tea tray.

“I don’t suppose I can say ‘no, thank you’?”

She ignored him. “If you were to appear regularly, or at least sometimes, in the town, many rumors would be laid to rest. Gossip would, I daresay, nearly entirely vanish. Not completely, because it will never do that. You would always be welcome in my home, I’m sure.”

“I will take your advice into consideration, Miss Lewis. In the meantime, keep out of my garden, if you please.”

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Waite. I hope to see you again soon.”

 

“And where have you been all afternoon?” Eva asked Danielle when she entered the house, cheeks rosy from the cold.

“Oh, Eva,” Danielle said breathlessly, “I met the alchemist!”

“Really? Where? What was he like?”

“He caught me in his garden.”

“Danielle! What have I told you about that?”

“Not to. But, Eva! It was worth it. He showed me his workshop, and told me about himself, and we had tea.” And then Danielle realized that Eva was _back_ , and asked, “Why are you back so soon?”

“Me?” Eva said with a sly smile. “Where would I have gone?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Danielle said. “James. Tell All!”

“Mr. Norton,” Eva pressed, “is doing quite well. I will tell him you asked after him.”

“Eva! Tell me!”

“Nothing!” Eva said. Her lips twisted, eyes sparkling. “Nothing yet.”

Danielle attacked her sister with a strike, pummeling her lightly with a scarf. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”

“Fine! Fine!” Eva shoved Danielle away. “Stop hitting me and I’ll tell you. Thank you. Well, James hasn’t really said anything outright yet, but I can tell what his feelings are. I think he’s waiting to save up before…”

“Save up? Save up for what? Before what!”

“Stop shouting, you’ll alert the whole town!” She blushed prettily. “He’s waiting to save up for a ring before he asks me to marry him. _Shhh_!”

But Danielle could not be contained, cheering and running about her sister, shouting, “A ring! A ring!”

 

*

 

_He’s going to ask you questions now, you can feel it._

_Well. More questions. Questions you can’t answer. Do they really matter anymore?_

_“Do you remember who pushed you?”_

_This again. “Yes,” you say. “Yes, and I still will not tell you.”_

_A grunt of acquiescence. “Did something happen at the wedding party?”_

_No. No. No. Not that._

_Yes, something happened._

_It—_

_“Yes,” you say, unable to lie. You close your eyes. “Something happened.”_

_“What.”_

_“No. Please don’t ask me.”_

_“Did it have something to do with your sister?”_

_The word forces itself from your lips before you can stop it: “Everything.”_

_The rustle of cloth as he grasps your chin, forcing you do look at him. “I cannot help you, you little fool, unless you tell me—”_

_This wetness on your cheeks, burns your skin as it drips from your eyes. The clock ticks in the corner._

_“Please,” you say, deadness taking over once more. “Please.”_

 

*

 

Since James Norton was not a cruel man, he did eventually ask Eva to marry him.

She, of course, accepted.

They decided to wed on the last day of the year, so that the celebrations might go on well past dawn without anyone really complaining.

The only one who complained was Danielle, who was dragged into rushing the preparations somewhat grudgingly. Her friends had all returned from their vacations, and they would come by the house while she was sewing, or knitting, or writing invitations, and inform her all the goings-on in the town; the most important thing she was missing, they said, was the alchemist.

“Tell me!” she demanded.

Well, they told her, he was frequenting the town now! He would take a daily walk through the streets, greeting people with a raised hat before going back to his estate.

Danielle’s sewing fell forgotten from her fingers as she sat back in her chair. Imagine! He’d taken her advice.

Mr. Waite was invited to the wedding, of course, as was the entire town; they were renting out the schoolhouse, which was closed for the winter, as it was the only building big enough to contain everyone for the ceremony and the feast. Danielle was dragged along to decorate it, and it was while she was perched on a ladder that the alchemist found her.

“Do you need any help?”

Danielle peered around the large bow she was trying to affix to a column. “Oh!” she said, surprised, and wobbled. Mr. Waite grabbed the bottom of the ladder, steadying it.

“Careful,” he said. He smiled. “I seem to keep meeting you whilst you are high above me.”

She managed to attach the bow, and safely descended the ladder. “I hear you are being more social these days,” she said.

“Oh, I am. Now, tell me: has your advice worked?”

“Sorry?”

“Have the rumors died down?”

“Well,” Danielle said, wiping her brow, “I suppose so. You’re not quite so mysterious now. But you’ll never stop being completely mysterious, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Waite sighed. “I live in hope, said the beggar to the king.”

“Would you like something to drink?” Danielle asked, remembering her manners. “It should be about tea-time, I think. The others have all gone home; I was just finishing up a few decorations. You’re welcome to come home with me.” When his mouth twisted, she added, “My sister is dying to meet you.”

“She’s the one who’s getting married?”

“Yes; you’re invited, in case you wondered.”

“Hmm. Must I?”

“Well, you don’t have to.”

He sighed. “Very well. I appear to be cornered. I would love to have some tea, thank you.”

“Don’t sound so grateful,” Danielle quipped. She shrugged on her coat, and then headed out, turning off the electrum lights as she went, and then locking the door. “We live just two blocks away. So, do tell me: what have you learned on your daily walks through our little town?”

“Many things,” he said tightly, as they turned down an alley. “The children especially are eager to speak with me.”

“They worship you.”

“Indeed? Well, they tell me things. Their secrets. They are very free with their secrets.”

“I suppose they trust you, as well.”

“Alchemists are very good at keeping secrets.”

“I would think so. Here we are.” The Lewis household was  rather narrow, compared to most houses, but it stretched back a long way. They stepped into a long entryway, stairs going upstairs on the left, doors leading deeper into the house on the right and underneath the stairs. Danielle took Mr. Waite’s coat and hung it and her own in a closet before heading underneath the stairs. That door let onto a short hallway, which led to an enormous sitting room, with bookshelves on every wall and a roaring fire. Large windows on the back of the room showed a barren yard sprinkled with dirty snow.

“Danielle? Is that you?” Eva came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She hesitated when she saw the alchemist. “You must be Mr. Waite. Welcome to our home.” She held her hand out, and he kissed it.

“Congratulations on your impeding marriage, Miss Lewis,” he said, and she blushed prettily.

“Would you like some tea, sir?” Eva asked.

“If I am not intruding.”

“No, of course not. Danielle, show our guest to a chair and then come help me in the kitchen.”

Danielle began to protest, but then shrugged. “This way, sir,” she said, and showed Mr. Waite to a comfortable chair by the fire before following Eva into the kitchen. They put together a delightful tea tray, and carried it back out to the alchemist, who was studying a magazine with interest.

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Lewis,” he asked, accepting a cup of tea.

For the better part of an hour, Eva entertained Mr. Waite, telling him all the latest gossip. In return, Mr. Waite remained attentive and polite; much more, Danielle noticed, than he was with her. When he had finished his tea, he graciously took his leave, claiming that his butler would be expecting him back. He kissed Eva’s hand with a courtly bow, nodded at Danielle, and then swept out the front door to be lost in the evening.

“Well,” Eva said.

“Indeed,” Danielle agreed.

“I don’t know why everyone was so scared of him; I found him quite charming!”

“Mm.”

After a moment, they returned to the sitting room and cleared the tea tray before starting dinner.  

 

The day of the wedding came all too soon. It began, inauspiciously enough, with evil grey clouds that rolled in just after breakfast; but they cleared out by the early afternoon, to be replaced with a sky so blue that it hurt the eyes when it reflected off the snow. The ceremony was to begin at sundown, and Danielle helped Eva dress in an upper room of the school house. Eva was glorious in her wedding gown, and her golden tresses were held back with a silver-beaded comb that had once been her mother’s. Danielle had to catch her breath when she saw how beautiful her sister looked. Of course, Eva became even more radiant when faced with the bridegroom, pale-faced and elegant in a grey suit that matched his eyes. Their love was nearly tangible when they locked gazes, smiling secretly to the other.

 

But. Danielle stole back to the kitchen during the following party and glimpsed something that caused her heart to leap into her throat, her mouth to dry, her face to grow hot. She returned to the party; Eva spotted her, and, concerned, grasped her icy fingers, asking, “Danielle? Whatever is the matter? Do you feel ill?”

“A momentary weakness—” Danielle managed to say. “I rose too quickly.” She hid her eyes by looking at the floor, and pecked Eva on the cheek.

Eva soon forgot the incident, but Danielle did not.

 

Not far into the new year, Danielle went to visit her new brother-in-law at the post office. It was an early and quiet morning, the snow still and smooth on the ground, the sun barely risen and shining wanly through sickly clouds. The post office was overheated and close. James looked up from his stamps when she entered, the little silver bell on the door tinkling in alarm.

“Why, Danielle! Good morning, sister!” He rose at once to kiss her on one flinching cheek. “How are you?”

“I am well,” Danielle said, distancing herself to inspect a stack of unsorted newspapers.

“And your father?”

“Fit as always.”

“Eva is very much looking forward to Sunday supper,” he said, to fill the silence. “She found a new recipe—”

“James,” Danielle said dreadfully. “Please.”

“Whatever is the matter?”

“I saw you at the wedding.”

James opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The ticking of the clock and the crackling of the electrum heater were unbearably loud. “I beg your pardon?”

Danielle whirled to face him, face flushed and eyes angry. “I saw you with Laurel at the wedding.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“How dare you! How dare you try to pretend you weren’t—” Her rage choked her into silence. “Will you tell Eva or shall I?”

“What do—”

“Either you tell her,” Danielle hissed, “or I will. You— you’re despicable. At your own wedding! Eva trusts you, and you—”  

He had her backed up to the opposite wall in an instant, one hand covering her mouth, the other on her shoulder, pressing her ungently against the stones. “You,” he said dangerously, “won’t tell Eva anything.” Danielle tried to jerk away from him, but he grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard. “You don’t understand.”

Danielle savagely bit his hand. “What don’t I understand?” she asked, when he drew back his hand in shock. “Tell me, you bastard!”

He slammed her other wrist against the wall. He pressed against her, and spoke directly into her ear. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, you nasty little hoyden. You will put what you saw from your mind, do you hear? I love your sister; I wouldn’t have married her otherwise. However, I have other arrangements already in place.”

She wanted to vomit, listening to this, feeling his breath puffing against her neck. “Get off me,” she said through gritted teeth. “Get off me or I’ll scream—”

The door behind them opened. Before either could do a thing, someone gasped and slammed the door shut again.

 

*

 

_“The waiting,” you say, “was the worst part.” Your heart pounds sickly in your icy chest, and your fingers cramp from clutching each other._

_“Stop that,” he snaps, forcing you to stop wringing your hands raw._

_“Will you let me be now?” you say, begging. “Please. I can’t think of this anymore.”_

_“No,” he says implacably. “You waited. What happened next?”_

_No. No! You are back there, on the riverbank, the wind howling through the trees. The storm is coming; can’t she see that? You must get home before the storm comes. It is much too cold and dark beneath these trees, and the footing is precarious. Your feet slip on the ice, and you stumble. The sound of cracking ice, barely heard sharp and ominous over the winds. No. No._

_“No!” It bursts involuntarily from your lips. “Please don’t make me, please don’t…”_

 

*

 

The waiting was the worst part.

Danielle never found out who it was that had seen her and James, but the rumors had begun hours after she ran home, stumbling blindly through the snow, to sit, shivering and panicked, by the fire. She thought about going to explain to Eva; but what would she say? James had tried to hurt her?

Of course, the rumors were worse than that— they said that James and Danielle had been caught—.

No! Danielle thought. That wasn’t it at all. Oh, but they wouldn’t believe her. Eva…her sister…

Danielle had only been trying to help. Instead she had made things worse.

 

Eventually, Danielle ventured outside, and to Eva’s house, when James was away. Eva opened the door silently, and then had stepped back, still grim and silent, to allow Danielle to enter.

“Eva—” Danielle burst out, eager to explain, but Eva held up a hand.

“Not here,” Eva said with a tight smile.

They had gone to the river, where they had spent so many delightful hours as children playing. Eva had stopped each of Danielle’s attempts to speak on the walk over with a squeeze of the hand. The wind had picked up on the way, and dark clouds loomed overhead through the rippling trees.

“Eva!” Danielle said finally, over the noise of the wind. “Please let me explain!” Ice blew into their faces, making them blink and slip. “Don’t go so fast! I can’t keep up.”

“You’re my sister,” Eva said. “You were supposed to stand by me, no matter what!”

“Let me explain, please,” Danielle shouted over the wind and the ice and the snow. Where was the water? Everything was much too dark, and Eva was pulling her along too quickly. She went down, slipping on an icy rock, and her head was knocked violently against the ground, and everything became quiet for a moment in that space of shock. Eva pulled Danielle to her feet again. Danielle touched the bloody side of her face and head with a trembling hand. “Please,” Danielle said again.

“I trusted you!” Eva cried, pushing Danielle suddenly back. “I trusted you, Danielle! My new husband? Really?”

 “Eva,” Danielle said desperately, “please, it’s not what you think, please let me explain—”

“No!” Eva cried. “No! I raised you, and this is how you betray me?”     

Danielle was dizzy; everything was going so wrong. Eva kept pushing her back and back and back, and if only she could get her footing and make Eva listen—

There was no warning but a crisp crackle before Danielle stepped onto the thin ice of the river and fell into water so cold it felt like a thousand daggers striking all at once.

Danielle gasped and clawed her way to the surface, but she couldn’t find the hole again. The water was so dark; she opened her eyes, and she could see through the ice, see her sister through the ice—

 

*

 

_You look up through the layers of water and she’s standing there, looking at you, and you lock eyes with her, and she’s so beautiful and you love her, you would do anything for her—_

 

*

 

Danielle mouthed, “I love you.” She loved her sister. Eva. Eva wouldn’t do something like this. It’s all an accident. Why was Eva smiling then, small and self-satisfactorily?

 

*

 

_You reach a hand up but the water is bearing you away, deeper under the ice, and the water is so cold against your eyes that you have to shut them against the pain—_

 

*

 

Danielle tried one last time, knocking her dead fingers against the ice, but the current of the river had her, and was bearing her away, and she was so cold, and so scared.

She was scared, and the water had her, cradled her so gently with clawed fingers.

She tried to catch her breath, but the water choked her, no longer gentle, but hard and harsh and—

Eva was still smiling.

The water pulled Danielle down.

It hurt.

She shut her eyes.

 

*

 

_You shut your eyes._

 

_*_

 

The funeral is held on a Sunday. The father is quiet and pale and thin, one shock too many, too quickly. The newly married sister is nearly broken with sorrow, leaning indecorously upon her new husband, who shushes her with sweet words. The snow doesn’t stop falling throughout the service, as friends speak, the priest intones his old words (“He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”), the sister and the father, faltering, speak, while the flames in the fireplaces gutter from the wind and the rest of the townsfolk dissolve slowly into grief.  
    

Mr. Waite watches from the back of the church.  
    

When the service has finished, they all go their seperate ways: the father to his empty house; the sister and the new husband to their home; the alchemist to his estate, through the rising wind.  
    

He thinks.  
    

He’s seen many things in his life. He’s traveled from the curtains of the Aurora Borealis to the savannahs of the Cape Colony, and little has surprised him. Not even alchemy. The science of alchemy was strictly that, and subject to the laws of nature. Humans, he finds, detesting that truth, have done little but.  
    

The police had seen the letter, written in shaky hand, that detailed the poor girls’ sorrow at betraying her beloved sister; she absolved her new brother-in-law entirely, she wrote in blotched ink. The body was never found. Well, he thinks irritably, they wouldn’t: the river was fast-moving and led straight out to sea, where a body might never be found, not in a hundred years.  
    

Pure serendipity, he scoffs to himself.  
    

It was too neat, much too neat entirely.  
   

He knows the truth, of course. (He was pleased with the new clockwork heart. It worked like a dream.)  
    

Torn from her stuttering lips, it was too heartfelt to be anything but the truth.  
    

He wasn’t surprised what happened, he was surprised with how neatly it had been arranged.  
    

However, needs must; extraordinary circumstances; and so on.  
    

He wasn’t concerned with justice-- there were those, including the Catholic Church and Certain Officiates in the CoE, that considered alchemists, despite their so obvious contributions to modern society, little less than hellish automatons labouring for the devil, biding their time to plunge the world into darkness and sin all at once-- but with balance. It was clear the poor girl had loved her sister; she hadn’t come out and said that she still did, but Mr. Waite could more than read through the sensational verbage she chose so carefully. As though she feared his condemnation for her ongoing devotion to the one who had murdered her!  
    

No; he had brought her back for his own occupation, and to try to change things now would be folly.  
    

But yet!  
    

If a girl could be brought back from the very grasp of death, could not a greater balance be struck? A new philandering husband, a new murdering wife, a dead, devoted, and ultimately innocent sister-- and he himself, a toiling scientist, for what reason? Alchemists, as far as could be gotten away with in conventional company, shunned the idea of an All-Knowing God (only one of the reasons churches despised them), but fate, or that new eastern fad of karma, and above all entropy--  
    

Something would have to be done.  
    

The situation as it stood left a bad taste in Mr. Waite’s mouth, disturbed his other experiments with doubts, left him aching for sleep.  
    

Something would have to be done.  
  
  

*  
  
    

“Tell me,” Mr. Waite asks quite suddenly one afternoon, “do you miss your old life?”  
    

You flinch. He tuts and takes the beaker of solution you were holding before you spill it. You say nothing, just wipe your sweaty hands on your skirts, hoping he won’t ask such things. He turns away to record something in a column.  
    

“It was a simple question,” he says a moment later.  
    

You turn away. The ticking of your clockwork heart is quite loud in the silence: the fireplace is cold, unlit, and the electrum lights make no noise. The snow has stopped its endless howl outside. “Don’t ask me such things. Please.”  
    

“Yes or no.”  
    

“I don’t know!” You cover your ears with your hands. Close your eyes. The memories hurt, sting like bees, make your breath come faster, make your new heart tick louder in your breast.  
    

He sighs, leads you to a chair, forces you to sit. “I only ask because--” His mouth twists, and he cuts himself off. He sighs once more and lowers himself into another chair across from you. “I went to your funeral today.”  
    

You don’t think about it. “How was it?”  
    

“Your father was beside himself.”  
    

Poor father.  
    

“So was your sister.”  
    

Can your clockwork heart break? It could, but Mr. Waite would doubtless just fix it again and bring you back. Your eyes sting with tears that cannot fall. “Eva...”  
    

“She betrayed you.”  
    

No. No. You are shaking your head. “She didn’t. Eva loves me.”  
    

“And you love her? Still?”  
    

You do. You do love her. You can’t not. Eva is your sister, and you will always love each other. You let out a ragged breath, and say, “I do.” You expect an explosion, a terrible rant condemning you for that, but there is nothing. He’s just sitting there, studying you.  
    

“Shall I tell you what else I saw?” he eventually says.  
    

“What?”  
    

“What else I saw after your funeral.”  
    

You shake your head no; you don’t want to hear it. You know that won’t stop him.  
    

“Your sister was being comforted by the ladies of the village, your father beside her; your sister’s husband was inconspicuously absent, and no one remarked on it but me.”  
    

Your lips form the word ‘no’ but he ignores you.  
    

“I saw them in a back hallway. They didn’t notice me, of course; they were too busy. Need I tell you the details?”  
    

The tears finally run over and scald down your cheeks. If you had anything in your stomach, it would rebel. As it is, you feel dizzy, and he takes you by the shoulders and shakes you, telling you to breathe, little fool. His fingers bite into your arms, and for the first time since you awoke you feel afraid. He flings you back roughly and storms away to stand glowering by the window.  
    

Eventually, he speaks: “I cannot let circumstances stand as they are.”  
    

This frightens you even more, and you find yourself clutching his arm. “You won’t hurt her, will you? Oh, please, don’t hurt my sister!”  
    

“I cannot say that my actions will not hurt her, but I will not move to do so directly.”  
    

“What will you do?”  
    

He shrugs. “I have yet to decide the best course of action.” He turns toward you. “And you.” He places a hand upon your breast, where the clockwork beats, ticking ever onward. “You will get your peace.”  
    

Was that what you miss? The true peace of the living? You cannot remember.  
    

“I will fix this,” Mr. Waite promises.  
  


*  
  

Evangeline Norton’s daily schedule looks like this:  
    

She rises at six, to begin breakfast for her husband, who rises at six-thirty and leaves for the post office by seven. After kissing him goodbye, she bathes and dresses for the day. From eight until nine, she writes letters and peruses various newspapers in the library. From nine until about ten thirty, she mends clothes and knits, and then leaves the house for her morning walk. At eleven-thirty, she packs a basket lunch for her husband and delivers it to the post office, and hears any gossip he might have before returning home to luncheon. After clearing her lunch dishes, about one, she cleans and bakes until tea-time, when she will visit her friends about the town. Her husband comes in from work at six or six-thirty, and they sup before retiring to the library where they read, or play cards, or listen to the wireless. They are usually in bed by half past nine.  
    

*

 

(Mr. Waite knows all this because Evangeline Norton’s friends are strangely forthcoming. They don’t seem to find his questions odd or suspicious. Mrs. Norton has nothing to hide, they think.)  
  


*

 

James Norton’s daily schedule, aside from those days when he flies to London, looks like this:  
    

He rises at half six, eats breakfast with his wife, leaves by seven. He works the morning hours in the post office, is glad to see Eva for lunch, and sends her off with a charming smile. Naturally, he closes the post for an hour at tea-time, and takes his tea in the little back room. He also has several visitors, none of whom are aware of the others. These visitors generally exit the back room disheveled and furtively leave through the alley. Mr. Norton reopens the post and works for a few more hours before closing shop once more and returning home for supper.  
  
    

*

 

(Mr. Waite knows all this because he took to taking his afternoon walks discreetly past the post office and noticed a certain pattern. Mr. Norton isn’t as careful as he believes.)  
  
    

*

 

But before Mr. Waite can act, you settle matters.  
    

You’re afraid of what he might do, so you slip out one day when Mr. Waite leaves to buy more science artifacts in the bigger town nearby. The sun sparkles off the white snow, dazzling you. You don’t have a coat, but you aren’t cold, exactly: each breath of icy air chills something deep inside, until every beat of your clockwork seems to take an eternity. Luckily, you see no one on your trip; it is Sunday, and everyone is at church.  
    

Your house is exactly as you remember. The spare key under the flower pot is still there. All is still and dark inside, and sad. Your father has not been taking care of himself. The spare key for Eva’s house takes a little longer to find, but you eventually find it. The Norton house is uncomfortably warm. You hide yourself in a corner, and wait. 

 

 

They don’t return for several hours, until the sun has long set from the brief day.  
    

He announces his desire to take a bath, and runs up the stairs. She enters the library and strikes a match to light a fire.  
    

You start to say something, but don’t. Instead, you walk from the shadows to catch her arm. Eva screams, gasps, and drops the match. All is darkness.  
    

Eva’s breathing is panicked. “Who’s there?” she demands. “Who’s in here?”  
    

(“Eva?” James calls from upstairs. “What’s the matter?”)  
    

After a moment of fumbling, she manages to light another match. She moans in horror at your illuminated face. “What are you?” she breathes. “How are you here, evil specter?”  
    

“What a horrible thing to call me, Eva.”  
    

At your voice, she jerks to her feet. “What are you?” she whispers.  
    

“I’m your sister. You killed me.”  
    

Eva gives a loud shout, shoving you away, and drops the match again. This time, however, it catches on the carpet. Eva doesn’t notice; she’s too busy rushing away, calling for James. The flames spread quickly, roaring hungrily. The wool carpet is easy kindling. You find yourself reaching out for the flames: they seem so warm, and you are so cold. Your skirts smoulder. The sound of breaking glass startles you; someone grabs your shoulders and drags you from the burning room, slapping your burning clothes. You stand in a growing pool of melting snow backlit by the burning house, and then the screaming starts.  
  


*

 

They lock you away. Eva is so terrified, and no one can explain why you are alive, that poor Bailiff Middleton has no choice but to place you in the jail. You don’t really mind. It’s quieter there.  
    

You hope Mr. Waite won’t be angry.

  
      
*

They throw Mr. Waite into the cell next to yours.  
    

It’s late, and you’re lying on the cot, not sleeping, when you hear angry shouting. The door to the jail slams open, and a group of men drag in a struggling Mr. Waite. The shouting pours in from the outside: “Evil Alchemist!” and “Murderer!”  
  

“You’ll be safe in there, Mr. Waite,” Middleton informs the man. “We’ll have the judge up on Tuesday, and we’ll settle this matter all polite.”  
    

You can’t hardly recognize him: his eye is blackened, and he is nearly livid with rage. “You simple, superstitious--” Mr. Waite begins.  
    

“Now, sir, don’t be using no words you’ll be regretting,” Middleton interrupts. “Why don’t you just cool off for a bit, and I’ll be back to see how you’re getting along.” With a nervous glance in your direction, he leaves.  
    

Breathing hard, Mr. Waite throws himself upon the cot and smooths his hair back from his face. “I don’t suppose you could have waited for me?” he says, after a pause.  
    

“I’m sorry. I-- I had to. I didn’t want you to hurt her!”  
    

“You and your damned murdering sister!” he roars, leaping to his feet and approaching your separating bars. “Did you hear what they said about me? They think I’m the murderer. That I killed you and brought you back to life. Or that I kidnapped you, making them all think you dead. If anyone is going to be hung here, it’s me.”  
    

You both lapse into quiet.  
    

“At least we’ll have a trial,” you mention.  
    

Mr. Waite snarls, and that ends the conversation.  
  


*

It’s quite early when you hear the door opening. 

“...Danielle?”

It’s your father.

“Father!” You go to the door of your cell, reaching through the bars for him. He looks at you with horror. “It’s me!”   

He seizes your hands tightly. “What happened? I...I buried you, Danielle.” His voice broke. “No father should have to bury his daughter.”

“I’m so sorry,” you cry. Your new heart could break from all your sorrow. “I never wanted to-- never--”

He cries too. “What happened, Danielle? Did--” He lowers his voice. “Did the alchemist-- do anything to you?”

“Oh, father. No. He-- he helped me.” What can you say? “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything!”

“Don’t come to the trial, please.”

“Why not?”

“I-- I don’t want you to hear the truth.”

“Danielle, what--”

“Just promise me, please!”

“I’m going to need you to leave now, Mr. Lewis. You aren’t supposed to be here.” However kindly, Bailiff Middleton rips you apart and steers your father out the door.

You fall, sobbing, to your cot. If you lie, Mr. Waite will be in trouble. If you tell the truth, you’ll betray Eva.

“Danielle?” Mr. Waite inquires.

“Why did you bring me back? Why did you bring me back?” You cover your face with trembling hands. “I wish I were dead.”  
  


*

  
 _Crack_!

“The trial of Mr. Ashton Waite, alchemist, will come to order please. Representing the plaintiff is Counselor Lawrence Brown; for the defendant, Counselor Harold Barrymore. Bailiff, the charge.”

“Mr. Ashton Waite is charged with the kidnapping of one Danielle Jane Lewis.”

“Mr. Waite, how do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Very well. Counselor Brown, you may proceed.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, here sits before you a most vile and guilty kidnapper. More than that, a satanic alchemist. He had the nerve, on Janurary the 4th of this same year, to kidnap this poor child from her family home and hide her. While there, he performed the most horrible scientific experiments on her, even replacing her heart of flesh and blood with one of clockwork! Terrified, the poor child eventually escaped to safety. But her life is forever changed, as is everyone who knows her. An alchemist simply does not value human life the way normal, feeling people do! I will prove this man’s sinister moral character, the sequence of events leading to the kidnapping and meddling with God’s perfect creation.”

“I will have order in this courtroom! Thank you, Counselor Brown, you may sit down. Counselor Barrymore, your statements, please.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what I have to tell you may come as quite a shock. Not only is Mr. Waite innocent of murder, he is also innocent of ‘meddling with God’s creation’! He did not kidnap Miss Lewis; rather, he found her dead on the river. Unable to cope with the loss of the youth, he used every ounce of skill he possessed to bring her back to life! He is her savior! He--”

“I will have order! Bailiff, throw them out! Thank you. Please, continue, Counselor.”

“As I said, Mr. Waite brought this fine young woman back to life. He saved her from eternal death. In return, he finds himself convicted of murder. I will prove Mr. Waite’s innocence, and the miracle of his science.”

“I think we all could you a moment’s respite. Court will adjourn for a ten minute recess.”  
    

_Crack!_  
  


 _*_  
    

This court case is excruciating. No one has any proof. There are only two witnesses, and both are suspected to be unreliable. Neither attorney calls them to the stand, so Mr. Waite and Danielle sit, day after day, as the dirt flies everywhich way. “Experts” on moral character are called in, as are priests who swear science is satantic, little old ladies whispering about being visited by demons, and the local schoolmarm, who claims Mr. Waite hexed her one day. 

Mr. Waite only rolls his eyes, and badgers his attorney to put him on the stand, to put Danielle on the stand. 

The fact that Danielle doesn’t want to is incidental; if it comes down between her relationship with a murderer, and Mr. Waite’s own neck, he’ll choose his neck every time. 

Convincing her is difficult, however, especially since her father comes every single day, as do her sister and brother-in-law. 

(They’re all called, trembling, to testify. If Eva sweats a bit too much, it’s attributed to her gentle and shy nature, poor girl, and not guilt.)

Finally, Counselor Barrymore agrees to put them on the stand. 

When he calls Mr. Waite up, there is instant commotion in the court.

The judge scowls and hammers with his gavel until the murmuring dies down.  
    

“Mr. Waite, can you describe your extensive training as alchemist?”

“Certainly; I attended Cambridge for my basic degree in physics, and then did my duty as an airship mechanic and pilot in Africa for five years, after which I moved to London and studied alchemy and clockwork with the great Allen Atwood, focusing on clockwork for improving life for returning soldiers: clockwork hands and the like. I then moved to this town in September of last year.”

“May I ask why?”

“I found I needed a change of pace from London society.”

“How did you meet Miss Lewis?"

“She attended a masque I hosted to meet my new neighbors not long after I arrived; I only saw her from afar, however. I met her fully in mid-October, when I caught her climbing a tree on my grounds. I feared for her safety, and gave her tea.”

“Did you entertain anyone else?”

“No; I am not fond of visitors.”

“Why was Miss Lewis different?”

“She was, as I said, already on my grounds. Trespassing, I might add. She spoke so boldly to me, and was so interested in my work I thought it best to show her what I did so that I could work in peace.”

“So she annoyed you.”

“At first; but she offered some very good advice on, ahem, matters of society that I can say we parted that day amiably.”

“Was that the only time you met?”

“No; I spoke with her again near the end of December. I saw her on a precarious ladder through the school-house windows, and I stopped in to thank her for the advice. She invited me to tea at her house, and I accepted. Her sister, Mrs. Norton, entertained me that day as well. I did not attend the wedding, as I was busy.”

“Where and when did you see Miss Lewis next?”

“It was some time after the first of the year; maybe five days. I was walking on my grounds, which contain a small pond, an offshoot of the river. Miss Lewis was drowned at its edge, washed up from the river. I could only assume she had fallen through the ice and drowned.”

“What did you do?”

“I am not a man at one with society. I am not proud; my first thought was for science. I had been tinkering with a clockwork heart, to replace those burdened by disease. Here was a convenient body upon which to experiment! I had also grown rather fond of Miss Lewis, and I hoped to bring her back to finish her as brief life.”

“You did not alert the authorities?”

“I am ashamed to admit that I did not.”

“Were those your only thoughts?”

“Yes. --no. I am hesitant to admit that I suspected foul play.”

“What led you to believe that?”

“Miss Lewis’ fingernails were ragged, as though she had tried to claw something. And under several was blood, not her own.”  
  


*  
   

Instant uproar. They had to stop for an hour, until peace could be restored and the trial could continue. Oh, Mr. Waite was so bored he could scream: the glazed eyes of the jury as he explained the technical science that had allowed him to bring Miss Lewis back to life, the judge growing redder and redder, Danielle growing paler as she heard exactly what he had done.

Eventually, there were no more questions for him, and Danielle was called to the stand.  
  


*

“Miss Lewis, can you say with all certainty and truth that you have no reason to protect Mr. Waite in any capacity?”

“I hold no especial fondness for him.”

“But you harbor no undue terror or hatred for him either?”

“He didn’t kidnap me or murder me, no.”

“Please answer the question, Miss Lewis. Counselor?”

“I ask again: do you harbor any undue hatred or terror against Mr. Waite?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Excellent. Ah. As far as the question of whether or not Miss Lewis is indeed herself, I submit to the court document Y, signed and noterized just this morning. It contains questions that only Miss Lewis could have known, certified by her family. However, in case there is still any doubt: Miss Lewis, has Mr. Waite changed your spirit or personality in any way?”

“Not that I know.”

“The only, ah, addition he made to you has been your new, ah, clockwork heart?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

“Do you find yourself still possessed of free will?"

“That’s what got me here, isn’t it?”

“Please answer the question, Miss Lewis.”

“Yes, I have free will."

“Excellent. Now then, can you tell me how you found yourself in Mr. Waite’s care?...Miss Lewis? ...my dear, are you alright?”

“Could I have a glass of water?”

“Certainly, certainly. ...now, can you tell me when you remember?”

“I woke up, and I was alive.”

“...is that all?”

“N-no.”

“I hate to press you, but we need the truth, if you please.”

*    

Danielle pressed a hand to her lips, behind which hateful and hurtful words bubbled. Her father had come, despite her plea, and so had the Nortons, and she glanced at them now, seated among all their friends. Eva’s face was white; James’s was red; her father looked like he might fall over. She shook her head.

“Miss Lewis?”

Oh, the horrible lawyer who was supposed to be helping them. He spent half the time dropping his papers and flumbling with his pocket-watch, and his coat had tobacco-stains on the collar and the pocket where he kept his pipe. He wiped his red, dripping nose continually, and spoke through a scratchy throat: late winter was obviously not kind to him.

“Miss Lewis? Did you hear me?”

And there was Mr. Waite, sitting patiently for something to happen. He’d had his miracle, his experiment; his notes were well-documented. Either way this trial went, he would go down in history once the journals came out next month, and this was just extra publicity. He’d told her, in his dry way, that he would prefer not to go to the electrum chair, but if she had so little regard for him then so be it.

“Miss Lewis, did someone murder you? Or was it an accident?”

Her other hand rose to clutch at the side of her head; black spots swam before her eyes; a cacophony of voice rose in her ears, too loud for her to parse.

“I was murdered,” she said, breathing again. The judge stopped pounding his gavel, the audience froze, Mr. Waite stopped half out of his seat. Everyone waited. “I was murdered.”

“By whom?”

Eva’s white face. Cold water. Ice cracking-- how silly, she’ll surely stop this soon, she won’t--

\--she couldn’t mean to--

\--how could--   

“Miss Lewis?”   

“Counselor,” she said. The world suddenly broke into focus. “Judge. I would ask that while I tell my story no one be allowed to leave. Please.” 

The judge gave orders, the officers were dispatched.  

“Once upon a time, there were two sisters,” Danielle began. “They loved each other very much. One day, the elder sister married her long-time beau, to everyone’s great joy.” She stared down the room into James Norton’s hateful, bloated, angry face. “But at the wedding, the younger sister saw something quite untoward. She saw her sister’s new husband with another woman.”  His hand convulsed around Eva’s, and he almost stood, while everyone around them gasped. Eva wrenched her hand away and did stand, stumbling away from him in horror. “Please sit down, Eva, I’m not done,” Danielle said. “So she went one day and confronted her sister’s new husband, and threatened to tell her sister if he didn’t stop. But he became violent, and began to threaten her instead. Someone saw them, and assumed the worst, and informed the elder sister than the younger sister was after her husband.”   

“I didn’t know!” Eva shrieked. “I didn’t know, Danielle, I swear I didn’t, please--”   

“Shut that woman up!” the judge shouted, as the courtroom errupted into chaos.    

Over it all, Danielle spoke. “The younger sister loved her sister, and wanted to tell her the truth, and went to do so that nigh!  But the elder sister would not listen, she wouldn’t listen, you wouldn’t-- and we went down to the river, do you remember, Eva? We used to play there as children, and it was so cold, and you went so fast I kept s-slipping on the ice, and I hit my head--”  

“I’m sorry! Please, Danielle! Don’t--”           

“I LOVED YOU,” Danielle screamed, surging to her feet. “I loved you, and you pushed me into the river, and I reached out for you--”   

Dead silence in the courtroom.    

“--and you smiled,” Danielle said. “You smiled as I drowned, Eva.” Her lips trembled, and her face was wet. She whispered, “I had to shut my eyes. I didn’t want to see your satisfaction because-- I love you.”   

“No!” Eva cried, as the judge ordered the bailiff to take her into custody, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know!”   

And Danielle sank to her knees, buried her face in her hands so she wouldn’t have to see, and cried.  
     

 *  
   

You curl up on your side, arms wrapped around yourself. At the edge of your notice, you hear Eva crying somewhere. You can’t cry anymore: you have no heart. Instead one of clockwork beats beneath your flesh. Mr. Waite told you that emotions don’t come from the heart, but you don’t believe him. But for the moment, you can’t cry.   

Mr. Waite leans against the bars of the connecting cell. “Our representative told me they will release us in the morning, once the notory opens. Your sister’s trial is not yet set. I...” He drifts off into silence and thought. He clears his throat. “I could use your assistance. I mean, I would like it-- did you want to move back home with your father?”   

Your nose stings when you think of your father: he’s now lost his entire family. Your voice, when it finally comes, is nearly a croak: “I should.”  

“Well, you may do as you like now. You’ve got your whole life in front of you. Have you given any thought to going to university?” 

You turn over and stare up at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”  

“Serious? Of course I am. I didn’t bring you back to life only to have you waste the gift.”   

You press your face to the rough mattress of the cot. “I don’t know, I don’t know what to do.”   

“You don’t have to decide now, I suppose, but you should start thinking about it. If you would like to, university is always an excellent idea. Or you could live with your father and help him. I suppose once the journals are released you’ll be something of a celebrity, and we’ll have to do some sort of publicity tour--”   

“Go away. You’re making my ears hurt.”   

“Fine,” he says sulkily. “I shan’t offer my advice again.”        

Liar.   

You see you life stretch out before you, and you once again wish he’d left you for dead. Your father won’t know how to act around you; you’ll still be dead to him. He won’t know how to deal. One day you’ll come to find him strung up in his workshop. James Norton will waste away, shunned by the entire town now that the truth has been revealed. The town itself will fall to bits trying to discover who was being unfaithful. Your sister-- will, at best, be shut away for the rest of her life. Or she could fry on the electrum chair. And you-- you will fade away as everyone around you leaves, and you’ll be stuck inside with that horrible tick--tick--tick counting the seconds until your final, real death. If that will ever happen. One day your mind might just stop, but your heart will go on beating, and you’ll be alive, alive forever--  

\--and your skin’s crawling with this realization, and you taste bile, and you shove yourself up--  

It’s morning. It was just a dream. Just a dream.    

They’re coming to let you out soon. You’ll step into the sunshine of early spring, weak and wan but promising. It’s the dawning of a new season, and a new life.You’ll bid your father and everyone you know goodbye, and forgive them, and disappear. Maybe you’ll go to America, or maybe you’ll go to London, or Dublin, or brave the mainland, and one day, maybe, you’ll feel ready to return and see people you know-- but for now, you’ll separate yourself from everything familiar, and perhaps die again, into your second chance at life. You told your story; now you are free.

They open the door and you walk out.  
  


*  
  
    

The truth is the truth.    

This is the truth: There were once two sisters who loved each other very much.   

The truth is always true. But it isn’t the whole story.       
  


_Fin_ _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John Ashbery, "The Ecclesiast": 
> 
> "For some day these projects will return.  
> The funereal voyage over ice-strewn seas is ended.  
> You wake up forgetting. Already  
> Daylight shakes you in the yard.  
> The hands remain empty. They are constructing an osier basket  
> Just now, and across the sunlight darkness is taking root anew  
> In intense activity. You shall never have seen it just this way  
> And that is to be your one reward.
> 
> Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living.  
> The night is cold and delicate and full of angels  
> Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up,  
> The chime goes unheard.  
> We are together at last, though far apart."
> 
> Based on the murder-ballad, "The Twa Sisters." Here's my own version: 
> 
> Two sisters when down to the river’s brim-  
> "Bow it down, bow it down-"  
> Two sisters went down to the river’s brim-  
> "The boughs are bent with me-"
> 
> Two sisters went down to the river’s brim,  
> The elder pushed the younger in.  
> "True, true to your true love,  
> And he’ll prove true to thee.”
> 
> "Please, dear sister, give me your hand,  
> And you shall have my house and land.”  
> "No, I won’t give you my hand,  
> But I will have your house and land.”
> 
> "Please, dear sister, give me your glove,  
> And you shall have my own true love.”  
> "No, I won’t give you my glove,  
> But I will have your own true love.”
> 
> First she sank and then she swam,  
> Until she arrived at the miller’s dam.  
> The miller he threw out his line and hook  
> And drawed her from the watery brook.
> 
> First he striped her from toe to chin,  
> And then he threw her in again.  
> The river bore her down and then  
> Never would she come up again.
> 
> "Bow it down, bow it down-  
> The boughs are bent with me.  
> True, true to your true love,  
> And he’ll prove true to thee.”


End file.
